Hochstetter's Stalag:  Butterfly Effect
by 80sarcades
Summary: Continuation of 'Hochstetter's Stalag.'  Death, visiting Stalag 13, has a chat with Colonel Hogan concerning his men.  WARNING:  Temporary Character Death - 2.  Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**_Hochstetter's Stalag: Butterfly Effect_**  
><strong><em>by 80sarcades<em>**

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><p><em>Welcome! This is a continuation of my original supernatural story 'Hochstetter's Stalag.' I plan on writing a third part (referenced in the prologue) where our loveable Major Hochstetter is taken care of for good...although he only has a cameo appearance in this tale. In case you've never read the original, the Major dies and his ghost is trapped in Stalag 13...seemingly forever. It's not required to read that story in order to enjoy this one, however.<em>

_A side note: what I meant by 'temporary character death - 2' was this: as the story progresses, two characters - one in the prologue, one later - will die. However, none of these will involve the current (1943) temporal occupants of Stalag 13. You have been warned._

_Enjoy the story and have a nice day! _

_Disclaimer: I disclaim this story. I disclaim everything. Who are you again?_

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><p><em>August 20th, 1991<em>  
><em>San Dimas, California<em>  
><em>7:45 PM<em>

The battle is joined.

Physicality collides with intangibility in a headlong battle of wills. The stakes are high for both combatants: one seeks to preserve life, while the other will eradicate with prejudice. It is a battle neither party can afford to lose.

Inevitably, one will fall. I watch silently, unable to intervene, as the mortal side of the equation began to give way. Even in defeat, I am impressed: the mind, despite the body's imminent failure, remains actively resilient.

Unfortunately, fate graces the darker side with victory. The wraith glowers in triumph over his defeated enemy; he knows that death will soon embrace his longtime nemesis. With a final taunt, the specter leaves to complete his evil task. The forsaken foe, now alone, now belatedly realizes that he is about to die.

Yet, despite the odds, he refuses to surrender quietly. Given his past, that is to be expected.

At that moment I raised my right hand. Time itself ground to a standstill even as the man, his face a mask of painful determination, crawled desperately towards the nearby telephone. Under other circumstances the still work of art before me might have been interesting. Memorable, even.

However, today is not one for entertainments. Instead, it was my chance to correct an impulsive mistake; to set right to an unknowing wrong. Without help, another innocent – one of many – will lose her life tonight. To counter, I must equal the balance.

With deliberate calm, my hand reached out towards the still living – yet temporarily frozen – body of Robert Hogan. As I did so, a part of my mind automatically recalled the last time I visited the former Army Air Forces Colonel. More than five mortal decades separated then and now, yet I recalled all as if it were yesterday.

Unlike Mr. Hogan, however, I have many more days left to travail…

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><p><em>November 4th, 1943<em>  
><em>Stalag 13, Germany<em>  
><em>9:02 AM<em>

By and of itself, the camp is unimpressive.

It exists as a collection of wooden buildings surrounded by barbed wire, guard towers and numerous fences. Men in blue uniforms, called Germans, guard a mix of other men who are far from their homes. In most respects, the camp is somewhat similar to its brethren spread out through this country and others.

In another aspect, it is an advancement of war...although one has to wonder how war has to advance at all. Instead of dungeons and irons, there now exists barracks and coolers. A mark of progress from supposedly civilized people. Still, however, the conditions here are humane; I well know the atmosphere that pervades the areas known as Poland and Russia.

No, by and of itself the camp is unremarkable...unless one inserts the qualifier 'below.' As in 'underneath.' Specifically, a large network of tunnels beneath the camp serves as a combination escape center and sabotage facility. Ingenious, really. At times I must take my hat off to the human race; one can be quite surprised at such moments.

It is for this reason, among others, that I am continually drawn to this camp. Not so much as for the Allied missions they carry out but more for their oddity. Of being a unique - one could almost say permanent - silent fixture beneath the feet of their enemies. Qualities I know of only too well, for what I do.

Of course, I am not a guard at this camp. Neither am I a visitor, nor a temporary guest. I go by many names; some recognizable, others lost to history. My true name is common while my public name is not.

For I, the observer of this camp, am simply known as Death. However, as one civilized being to another, you may call me Jack.

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><p><em>Next: Observations<em>

_A/N: I haven't posted to FFN lately...or done much of anything else, rather...since I am in danger of losing my job due to a recent restructure. I'm trying to save it, but...things are not going well for me. If it were just me, I'd walk away and say the hell with it and the stress. However, as I have a family to support, my options are somewhat limited. _

_Additionally, with my wife going back to work I've had to ramp up my 'Mr. Mom' routine around the house. Strangely, it both pleases and annoys my wife at the same time...I'm doing my usual bit but I keep everything clean, nice and laundered. On the other hand her cooking is better than mine!_

_I'll try to update as quick as I can if RL doesn't intervene. Then again, I'm not going to let my work problems affect my regular life, either._


	2. Observations

_**Hochstetter's Stalag: Butterfly Effect**_  
><em><strong>by 80sarcades<strong>_

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><p><em>Welcome back! The next chapter features the beginning of the conversation between Hogan &amp; Death. I'll try to have it out when RL permits sometime next week.<em>

_Disclaimer: Who am I kidding?_

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><p><em><strong>Chapter 2: Observations<strong>_

There are many misconceptions about what the human race calls Death.

In some primitive cultures I am portrayed as a mysterious wind that takes souls to a mystical place in the afterlife. In western civilization I am pictured most as the Grim Reaper: a skeleton-like figure wearing a heavy cloak, a scythe in my hand as I wait to claim my next victim.

In truth, I keep up with the fashion trends; currently, I wear pinstripes and wingtips. Plus a hat. I find a fedora to be one of humanity's greater creations; they make one look much more dignified. Stylish, in fact.

As to my 'normal' robes I confess to being haunted by an unfortunate clothing choice: I wore the dreadful getup when I claimed a particularly nasty human some years ago. Unfortunately, several of his relations saw my attire; one was an artist, so...

There are times that I truly hate humanity. But, I digress.

Another point is of my supposed omnipotence: my hands claim all in their bony grasp. What rubbish. In a way, the process of death is almost mechanical: your soul, already judged, passes on to another level of existence. Unwilling or regretful spirits may find themselves as incorporeal beings on Earth, for example. Then again, your ultimate destiny may take you to the heavens above or the hells below. Oddly, this is quite the conundrum for me: by default, I represent the gateway to other unearthly planes of reality. On the other hand, I am forbidden to enter – and have never seen – either destination. Interesting, wouldn't you think?

So with the occasional exception, my duties as Death are quite boring. Even dull, to say the least. Every so often I am called upon to 'fix' errors in the system. The man who somehow lived beyond his term of life, for example. Or the woman, suffering from terminal cancer, who agonizes in pain long after she should have passed away. Even still - and more rarely - I belie my name and bring life to those too early for Death. All of these I can do, save for one restriction; to a mortal, my curse of immortality seems to be a pearl beyond compare.

And yet...I am drawn to places of life. Perhaps that is part of Death; to seek out places of being. Perhaps it reminds me of myself, long ago, when I was once mortal. At times I still try to embrace that normality even though it has slipped from my grasp forever.

On occasion, I have merely sat placidly in corner cafes to watch the world pass by; watched innumerable sunrises and sunsets come and go from all corners of the earth; sipped coffee and wines that teased the senses. Yet, despite the tranquility of life, I am eventually reminded of my true nature: I have merely to look at a human and know when they will die.

Distressing, really.

Still, however, I try. Even in the midst of a World War, I will try.

As I mentioned, the camp - Stalag Luft XIII, in fact and name - is an oddity even among its brethren. Unlike other camps, there are no escapes; the inmates here are seemingly satisfied prisoners of the Third Reich. Despite the large number of sabotage incidents in the area, no German entertains the notion that the prisoners are responsible. Instead, the local Gestapo agency pursues supposed partisan bands.

Then again, I should correct myself: there was one man who believed that Stalag 13 housed the infamous Papa Bear and his elusive organization. An individual whom, I shall add, knows the complete truth...though it does him no good now. His actions, along with those of the German and Allied personnel, make for an entertaining screen play at times. A bright spot in the midst of the unimaginable dreariness of wartime Europe.

However, none of these are the true corner of my attentions. Instead I eye a solitary man standing in front of a wooden barracks. His leather jacket, topped with a pair of small silver eagles, mark him as unique for an enlisted man's camp. However, like the American version of Superman, many would give all to learn of his true identity.

The man called Papa Bear - otherwise known as Colonel Robert E. Hogan - stands unmindful of the cold air swirling around him. His casual glance around the camp speaks volumes, yet his thoughts are quite naturally on his men. As well as they should be.

However, there is an undercurrent in that stream that troubles him as it does now. It goes beyond his status as a Prisoner of War; his nighttime adventures and silver tongue balance the limited ability to help the enlisted men here. No, the emotion is guilt...and it resonates most strongly when he thinks of his four most trusted men.

To his mind, they do so much yet he can do very little for them. It pains him to see all of his charges suffer in poor conditions; the feeling is especially true with those of his operation. He cannot give them rewards, save for those at war's end; no passes for them to relax after risking their lives innumerable times.

In actuality, his concerns are misplaced. I know the thoughts of his men. They take pride in their contributions to end this war; I have the feeling they could snatch souls from Hell itself if it meant the end of this terrible conflict.

Even now the burden of responsibility lies heavily upon the American officer. At that moment his radio operator walks out of the barracks to pass on a secret message. Hogan's face shows nothing; however, his inner emotions show all.

Anger. Depression. Frustration. Another mission ordered by those far from the fighting.

And yet, despite the daunting odds, he will carry out his mission. With blinding speed the American Colonel hatches a plan; his second-in-command leaves to convey his orders. Another operation will be carried out by tomorrow evening.

At that moment, Hogan set off on a personal mission of his own. This time no sabotage is involved; merely something simpler in nature. Yet to those would receive it the object is priceless.

* * *

><p>"Denied, Colonel Hogan!" Colonel Klink yelled, throwing the American officer a halfhearted salute before returning to his ever-present paperwork. "Dismissed!"<p>

"Oh, come on, Kommandant!" Hogan retorted, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. "It's just a blanket," he smoothly noted. "If you haven't noticed, it's pretty cold outside. It's hard enough to keep the barracks heated at night!"

The Luftwaffe officer, much to Hogan's annoyance, nodded absently even as his hand signed off the next document in his pile of papers.

"Uh, hum, Uh, hum," the Kommandant muttered, laying the paper in the out tray before standing up to face his Senior POW. His monocle eyed Hogan with a knowing, if not accusing, glare. "And perhaps your men need the material, hah?" he sarcastically replied, raising his finger in accusation. "Material for uniforms, perhaps?"

"Kommandant, you know me better than that!" the Senior POW protested indignantly.

_Besides, we use the quality stuff for our German uniforms instead of that ersatz junk!_

"I was only thinking of the men, sir," he continued, keeping his voice level as he switched tactics. "They look up to you. Surely you could show some leniency. In some ways they think of you as the father they never had. And it is such a small thing, sir…"

Unfortunately, today was not Hogan's lucky day. "Colonel Hogan," the Kommandant's irritatingly smug tone announced, "surely you realize by now that the Luftwaffe has better things to do than to be concerned by blankets..."

The American Colonel cursed inwardly. _For a moment, I thought he was going to go for it! Now I get to listen to Klink's PS3: Pompous Stupidity to the Third Power. _A wry smile crossed his face. _Which I guess is better than the Kommandant's usual Wii: Whiny, indecisive, and idiotic._

Hogan tuned out the rest of the self-serving speech even as he turned toward the nearby window. _And new blankets will look good on the next Red Cross tour, won't it?_ he thought sourly. In all honesty, he wasn't too worried. Klink would eventually give the blankets up; he was sure of that.

Yet it was frustrating, having to beg for something he could have, once upon a time, signed a requisition form for. Add to that the urgent mission from London...

_Sometimes, I wish I had never been born. _

Lost in thought, it took him a moment to realize the room had suddenly turned quiet. The Colonel turned and opened his mouth, preparing to speak...

...only to freeze in mid-word when he saw a motionless Colonel Klink.

The Luftwaffe Colonel, his arm in mid-air, stood there as if silently lecturing the American officer. Hogan cocked his head to one side, curious.

"Colonel Klink?" he said softly.

No reaction.

"Kommandant?" he called out, this time louder. "Can you hear me?" When no response was forthcoming, Hogan reached out to touch the other man. The uniform and skin were warm to his touch but there was no apparent pulse. Frowning, he checked the other wrist, then the neck. For all apparent purposes the Kommandant was dead.

_That's impossible!_ he thought. _People can die while standing up. On the other hand, you don't keep standing up when you're dead! _

For a long moment he stood there and watched Klink. There was no movement at all, not even breathing. It was as if someone suddenly turned the German Colonel into a wax figure. Despite the seriousness of the situation, a faint grin broke out on the POW's lips.

_At least there's one good thing: he finally shut up! And who would want a wax statue of Klink, anyway?_

Finally, Colonel Hogan turned away from the German commander and opened the door to the outer office. As he stepped through the doorway, he glanced at the Kommandant once more; the still figure left him unnerved as he tried to figure out his next course of action. He quietly shut the door behind him before turning to the nearby desk. "Hilda..." he casually began, trying to keep his voice even. The following words died away as he took in the scene before his eyes.

To his horror, Klink's blonde secretary was also frozen in time. Oddly, the handset of the desk phone was cradled against her ear as if she were carrying on a conversation. For a moment, Hogan curiously studied her happy face; under any other conditions he would have cherished that delightful smile of hers.

_Just not right now!_

"Hilda?" he called out gently. He raised his right hand and flicked his fingers in front of her nose several times.

Nothing happened. Hogan forced his hands to stay still even as they reached out to tenderly grab her familiar shoulders. "Come on, honey," the Colonel urged as he shook her back and forth. "Wake up." To his dismay her body, although warm like Colonel Klink's, moved stiffly. Almost, he noted, like a department store mannequin.

"HILDA!" he yelled, desperately trying to control his growing frustration. Despite his efforts, the woman/mannequin failed to respond. The handset, shaken loose from the figure's grasp, fell to the wooden floor with a hollow thud even as the Colonel stumbled backward in shock.

Shaken, he turned toward the main exit and grabbed the doorknob of the wooden door before flinging it open. The sight that greeted his eyes startled him into silence.

The compound, once teeming with life, was now filled with mannequins wearing German and Allied uniforms. A lifelike statue of Schultz, his face tired and worn, had just mounted the second step of the Kommandtur's porch. A baseball, thrown by one prisoner to another, hovered in the now still mid-air before the Colonel's disbelieving stare.

With a heavy breath, Hogan stepped back into the office and closed the door. Uncharacteristically, he sagged in defeat against the wooden panel even as his mind tried to make logical sense of his new reality. He eyed Hilda again; her happily frozen face was enough to unnerve him.

_What in the name of God is going on?_ he desperately wondered.

At that moment, a solemn voice interrupted his thoughts.

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><p><em>Next: Chapter 3 - Hogan &amp; Jack<em>

_As always, thanks for reading!_


	3. Hogan & Jack

_**Hochstetter's Stalag: Butterfly Effect**_  
><em><strong>by 80sarcades<strong>_

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><p><em>Welcome back! I want to thank everyone who has reviewed this so far; it gave me the burst of energy I sorely needed. It proves a point: this is truly one of the best genres on FFN to write for. Again, thank you!<em>

_Some of you have wondered if we're going down the "It's A Wonderful Life" road. The short answer is: yes. However, there is no Christmas involved in this one...unless you count Hochstetter's cameo as the Grinch!_

_As always, enjoy the story & have a nice day!_

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><p><em><strong>Chapter 3: Hogan &amp; Jack<strong>_

I _so_ dislike interruptions. Particularly when they interrupt a personal mission of mine.

With a snap of my fingers, I flash myself to the trouble point. There, a concentration camp inmate suffers in pain long after his designated demise. With a touch of his shoulder, I send the child onward to his final destination. For a moment I stare at the gross inhumanity that occurs around me; at times I wish I could remove the evildoers of such crimes.

However, that is beyond even my power. I may pass on the souls of those already dead or about to die; I cannot take anyone before their time.

The irritation I feel only grows as another soul, this one in Hawaii, summons my attention. The passage of that former mortal reminds me once again that I am essentially damned in nature. Only the slight hope of redemption – as that given my predecessors – wavers dimly in the distance before me. At times, I wonder if I should have chosen Hell.

Then again, I do so enjoy watching my sunrises…

With my tasks complete, I return to Stalag 13 in time to catch Colonel Hogan's last worldly reactions. For the first time in days I slip unnoticed into the mortal world; I eye the American officer even as I catch his last desperate thought.

"I apologize for the theatrics, Colonel Hogan," I said, breaking the silence. "However, God had nothing to do with this. I did."

The American officer, startled, suddenly turned to look at me. His curious eyes took in my measure; naturally, I supposed he was trying to figure where this stranger fit into his suddenly immobile world. His next words, however, stunned me.

"You're Death," he said flatly.

The Americans have a saying for such occasions: _wearing a poker face_. I suppose that suits me well. My smile is forced at times; my expression a trifle grim...if you will pardon the pun. Yet behind that mask I am surprised.

And his thoughts! Even now, he feels fear; that is expected. However, at the supposed hour of his death, his mind turns to his men. What will become of them, he wonders? There is concern; even worry. As for himself: nothing.

It is truly astounding how this mind of this human works! Few mortals would meet his standard; the vast majority, if not nearly all, of those few who stand before me only care about their pathetic lives.

"Yes, I am, Colonel," I calmly replied, keeping my face neutral. "However, I am not here for you. I merely wish to talk."

A small smile, accompanied by a raised eyebrow, greeted my overture. "Is this the part where I give you my name, rank, and serial number?" he asked innocently.

I suppressed a small chuckle. _Say what you will about mortals,_ I thought. _At least some of them have a sense of humor!_

"You may, if you desire," I dryly acknowledged. "However, there are far more interesting subjects to discuss."

My hand waved at the still room. "As I said, I apologize for the current conditions. A mere parlor trick, to be sure...but certainly effective for privacy."

Hogan glanced over at the frozen secretary. "What about Hilda?" he asked. "And the others?"

"Merely frozen in time," I replied. "And quite unhurt, I assure you. When we are finished, time will resume its normal course. For them there will be no difference."

The other man nodded in understanding. Fortunately, I could tell that his fear had given way to curiosity. Surprisingly, despite my powers thus far, he was not awed by the man before him. Instead his mind concentrated on the reality…such as it was…of his changed world.

_And you have no idea how happy that makes me, Colonel,_ I thought. _To perhaps have a conversation between knowing individuals; to not endure the whinings of mortality. This should be interesting._

"So..." Hogan began, shrugging his shoulders casually, "what did you want to talk about?"

I motioned my head towards the door. "Follow me, and I will show you."

Together, we left the small office. To my amusement, I sensed his amazement at seeing the motionless surroundings again. At times like these it reminds me of the mortality I surrendered so long ago. The sense of curiosity and wonder...

Lost in my thoughts, I failed to sense the black-uniformed wraith that rounded the corner of Barracks Two. My charge sees him first; his face turns white with shock. As he should be.

For the new arrival is already dead, and has been so for some time.

"You!" the recognizable figure of Major Wolfgang Hochstetter screamed at even as he stabbed a finger in my direction. "I want out of here!" At that moment, he noticed the Colonel's stupefied gaze; his angry snarl only increased in volume. "And you, Hogan-"

With a wave of my hand I temporarily banished the deceased Gestapo officer from our presence. Hogan stared at me, his face pale.

"That was Major Hochstetter," his shocked voice finally whispered.

"Obviously," I dryly confirmed.

"But he's dead!"

I cocked my head slightly before nodding. "Yes...and no," I ambiguously answered. "The soul never truly dies, Colonel. When one passes on, their energy - in fact, their very essence - faces Judgement. To pass beyond to their ultimate reward or punishment as the case may be. As was for our Major, in fact. In certain situations, however, I can adjust their fate."

My earlier observation about Hogan was correct: I was pleased to see color quickly return to his cheeks even as his mind considered the unknown. "Mind if I ask what his Judgement was?" the American asked, though I could tell he already suspected the answer.

"To remain here forever," I said. "However, that is immaterial to our true topic. Shall we proceed?"

Hogan nodded. As we continued to the barracks, I could feel his cheeky smile. Obviously he is amused by the thought of his former nemesis knowing of his operation yet being unable to stop it.

Then again, I cannot blame him. Death, as mortals know, has a truly perverse sense of humor at times.

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><p>The entry to Barracks Two is already open; we move past the frozen prisoner holding the door and into the building proper. Inside are a motley collection of men in dingy colored uniforms. Some are laying on their wooden bunks; others are standing here or there. However, the men that concern me most are grouped around a rough wooden table in the center of the barracks.<p>

A standing man - young, by his features - has an expression on his face as if he has told an interesting joke. Nearby, a blue-uniformed airman has a look of resignation while another man, this one wearing a red beret, holds a cheerful aura of humor. The final member of the quartet is quite interesting: a colored individual – one of the few in camp, actually – whose solemn features belie his innate intelligence.

I casually glanced at the table with disinterested eyes. As expected, Hogan's blank face covers emotions fraught with worry.

"Relax, Colonel," I called out to ease his fears. "I am not here for these men. They have their own lives to lead; destinies to fulfill. However, I am curious as to your feelings for them."

The American shrugged. "I'm responsible for them," he explained, simply.

"Ah, yes," I breathed. "The duties of a Senior Prisoner of War. Quite admirable, of course. However, while you care for all of the men in this camp, these particular individuals are special to you. Why?"

Hogan sighed, yet said nothing.

"In the office, I could feel your worry for them." A small smile curled my lips slightly. "You were worried about leaving them behind. And before that..." I paused for a moment as I quickly sifted through the Colonel's thoughts, "you were frustrated at your inability to do even the simplest things for your men. As a matter of fact, you wished that you had never been born."

The American officer, dumbfounded, stared at me with a stunned expression on his face. "How the hell did you know all of that?" he finally demanded.

"I am Death," I casually answered. "I know all."

_And I know of you, Colonel Hogan_, I thought. _Your life here is but only a single chapter; you have many more tomes to fill before your final battle with the true Kommandant of this camp._

However, such things – as well as my regrets - are for the distant future. I moved toward one of the figures; despite my earlier promise, I can see Hogan's figure stiffen slightly. I sighed dejectedly; distrust does seem to be part of the very nature of my being.

"Your influence is profound with these men," I finally continued. "Now, and in the future. Their belief in you is strong; they are proud to serve under your command."

Hogan looked at his men for a moment before ruefully shaking his head. "Proud?" he snorted. "Of me? Of this? You're kidding!" At that, he sharply waved his right hand towards a nearby wall. "What's there to be proud of?" he angrily blurted. "It's bad enough asking them to risk their lives on missions outside the wire; I understand that. But to return to this, night after night..."

Hogan's voice trailed away into silence. His features, wreathed in shaded emotions, maintained their composure even as his eyes glanced at the men of his operation. It was a long moment before he spoke again.

"It's not fair to them," he quietly growled. "Any of them. Sometimes I wonder why they just don't pack it in and escape. What sane person would stay here?"

"But they do, Colonel," I softly interjected. "And, if it need be said again, they believe in you. A belief so strong that they would operate out of Hell if it would serve the Allied cause. Answer me this, then: are these men better off for having known you?"

The Colonel shrugged his shoulders slightly. "Maybe," he admitted, his tone one of disbelief. For my part, I merely raised an eyebrow.

"Then I am going to grant you a special gift, Colonel Hogan: I am going to show you what life would have been like had you not been born. Certainly not your whole life; after all, this is not Bedford Falls..."

Hogan, his brow furrowed in puzzlement, looked at me curiously. I sighed yet again; at times, I get the future mixed in with the past.

"...but never mind that," my voice continued smoothly. "Instead I will show you the altered destinies of these four, starting with this individual..."

I reached out and touched the still figure before me. Instantly the world of the barracks disappeared; I momentarily savored the sight of Hogan's jaw dropping in utter shock even before the sharp lines of a large office appeared around us. Awards and photos cluttered the walls; a colored man silently worked at an ornate wooden desk.

"My God," Hogan muttered, his face in awe of the new surroundings. "Where are we?"

"The future," I replied dryly. My hand then pointed at the sole occupant. "His, to be specific," my voice clarified. "One without your influence; the man there has never known you. And, I might add, he can neither see nor hear us."

The American officer stared curiously at the grey-haired man nearby. "Kinch?" he finally said loudly, almost incredulously. As promised, the man paid no attention to the intruders; instead, he leaned back in his chair and studied a set of papers.

"I'm impressed," the Colonel admitted. "Too bad you can't pass this invisibility trick around. I could think of a dozen uses in camp and more beyond that." A wry grin appeared on his face. "Do you think we could stop off at a WAC post somewhere?" his innocent, almost eager voice asked. "I haven't been able to keep on top of all the new things the Army is trying out-"

"I do not believe the Women's Army Corps is on our list of _approved_ stops, Colonel," I huffed, though I admired the effort. "Do try to keep your mind out of the gutter, if you would."

The Senior POW shrugged. "It was worth a try," he grinned. "What else do you expect? I'm in a prison camp; we think about women and food all the time. Not necessarily in that order, either," he happily clarified.

"Food is certainly understandable," I allowed. "As to the other...there have been more than a few women in and out of camp, have there not? I believe you are acquainted with after-action reports, Colonel."

Hogan frowned. "Yeah, I am," he said, confused. "So?"

A small smile tugged at one corner of my lips. "You may find it interesting to know how you were rated on their after-action reports, my dear Hogan. I believe most of those involved rated you as 'average'...along with the one 'needs improvement...'

Colonel Hogan's face turned pale.

"Relax, Colonel," I said calmly. "That, if it must be said, was a joke." I paused, then let the restrained grin slowly cover my face. "Maybe."

The American officer, now mollified, glared at me. "That's dirty pool," he growled accusingly.

"I'm Death," I shot back. "What do you expect? Hugs and kisses are not my forte. However, if we could get back on track..."

The Colonel exasperatedly shook his head several times before he turned back towards the desk. For a moment, he quietly studied the older Kinchole. "He doesn't look too bad, for an old man," he observed. His eyes then admiringly stared at the decorated wall with a touch of pride. "Looks like he's done pretty well for himself."

"Quite so," I acknowledged. "However, you may notice something missing. Look closely."

Colonel Hogan scanned the wall; nothing seemed out of place at first. Framed photos of Kinch with various - _and possibly famous?_ - people hung in neatly ordered rows; a square clock next to the door marked the current time. The Senior POW stepped forward to inspect the odd timepiece; oddly, numbers in black seemed to float against a gray background. As he watched, the last digit of 2:17 turned into an '8'; yet, there were no moving parts!

_How is that possible?_

He shook the futuristic feeling away. It was only after glancing at another photo - _I guess Ronald Reagan's still a popular actor_ - that he realized the obvious: there were no framed discharge papers. Or, for that matter, nothing – photos, awards, and the like - that indicated he was in the Army at all. He frowned at Death, who nodded knowingly.

"This is where your influence begins, Colonel," I began. "As before, Mr. Kinchloe served his country honorably. However, there was never an accidental meeting between the two of you; no recommendations to learn his true calling."

My voice paused as I looked towards the still-working figure. "Oh, he eventually had his opportunity," I continued. "However, he was never exposed to combat; never endured the rigors of being a Prisoner of War."

"And that's a bad thing?" Hogan questioned, his eyes examining my features closely before he waved a hand at the decorated room. "Look around. He has a good life; I wouldn't be surprised if he was a millionaire!"

"Several millions, actually," I dryly said. "Tell me, my dear Colonel: why did you select Mr. Kinchloe as your second-in-command? Surely there were more qualified men available."

"He was the best man for the job," the Senior POW immediately said, his lips narrowing slightly. "When it comes down to it, I trust him to do the right thing."

My head cocked slightly to the right. "As they say, there is the rub: you rely on ability rather than on appearance. Commendable, even for your time. In a way, that makes us alike: Death discriminates for no one."

I paused for a moment. "Your own Mr. Kinchloe followed - will follow - a similar path; however, for he and this one" - and here I paused, pointing at the other man - "there was a different answer to their particular question of life."

"And that was…" Hogan asked, his voice trailing off.

"How can I prove myself?" I answered. "The former, as you know, went to Stalag 13; there he makes his contributions known. As for the latter...well, his question was never resolved. Instead, unimportant jobs were his due; his time in the Army merely a blip on the eventual path to greatness."

At that moment the older version of Kinch stood up; the Colonel watched calmly as the other man walked out of the office. "He wasn't a POW," he said, eyeing the departing figure with a wistful eye. "So what if he never met me? Either way, he's a man's man. Still is, apparently."

"Perhaps a more concrete example would begin to convince you, Colonel."

At that moment, I closed my eyes. For a moment, the surroundings swirled around us...

...and reformed into a small, if not cozy, living room. Energetic curses and yells in accented French flew around the papered walls as three older men on a couch energetically watched a football game. Hogan gaped at the box that sat across from the trio; the color - color! - screen showed men kicking a soccer ball towards a nearby goal. With a final effort, the ball flew into the net; the men jumped up and grabbed onto each other even as they loudly cheered their team's victory.

"That's television," Hogan said, pointing at the set. "I remember seeing one at the World's Fair back in 1939. Back then, it was in black and white." He chuckled in amusement. "I guess the future holds some surprises."

"That it does," I said before glancing around the room. "As you may have surmised, this is the home of one Louis LeBeau. Like Mr. Kinchloe, this man has never met you."

Colonel Hogan studied the older LeBeau for a moment. The only obvious differences were his advanced age and different clothes. He watched admiringly as LeBeau quickly leaped to his feet again before his slower couchmates. "What makes him so different?" he asked dismissively. "Obviously, he's enjoying life. Not too much different from the LeBeau I know."

"Look closely at his eyes, Colonel."

Hogan did...and almost recoiled in disgust. The happy and carefree eyes of the LeBeau he had known were long gone. Instead, the orbs were filled with coldness and dark hate; the smile that lit up the man's face did nothing to brighten his gaze. The Colonel shook his head, stupefied.

"What happened to him?" he breathed, his eyes sadly tearing away from the former Corporal before they met my own.

"Like Mr. Kinchloe, he faced a similar question: how can I prove myself? He is a true patriot; even doubly so."

The Colonel nodded. He remembered when the Frenchman was going to escape in order to rejoin the fight for his home country. He also recalled LeBeau's reaction to collaborators as well.

"However," I went on, "he never had the opportunity to fight for his country in its critical hour; instead, he was captured before he could show his true worth. Unlike your Mr. LeBeau, who served you well at Stalag 13, this version was a bit...unluckier."

I walked around the room for a moment and studied the wall hangings. Most humans, as a rule, enjoyed decorating their homes with some kind of art or, more recently, photographs. Some are self-important; others merely decorative. The owner, I quickly noted, is more of the latter variety though his taste in art is deplorable. However, I returned to the task at hand.

"This LeBeau, as I said, was unlucky from your original," I continued, my voice level against the background din. "He was sent to a prison camp, where he promptly escaped. Although thwarted, he tried again. And again. And again. Eventually, due to his reputation, he was sent to the most secure of prison camps...a recognition that I am sure that he would not have appreciated."

Hogan shivered inwardly. "Colditz."

"Correct," I sighed. "His repeated failures frustrated him; the grey walls of Colditz Castle slowly twisted his mind. Eventually it fermented into a seething hatred, though carefully hidden. Outwardly, he returned from the war to become a successful chef and owner of his own restaurant. On the inside, he has never been able to let go of his hate."

"Even now, he hates Germans. Even more, he hates himself for being unable to fight for his beloved country. A chance, I might add, that you gave your own version."

Hogan glanced at the former Corporal. This time, his eyes were a maze of conflicting feelings even as he carefully observed the man before him. For once, he said nothing. After a long moment, he finally found his voice.

"It's hard to believe," he said, his voice husky with emotion. "LeBeau's a good man. It's hard to imagine him like that." He shook his head sadly before looking in my direction.

"Tell me something," he asked, his eyes almost pleading with mine, "how does mine..."

"...end up?" I finished. "You may relax, Colonel. Your LeBeau is a happy one in his old age." My lips then quirked slightly to a silent joke. "And, if I may say, quite an active man in more ways than one."

Hogan caught my hidden meeting and lightly snorted. "Gets around at the old folks home, doesn't he?" he quipped, straight-faced; I chuckled amusedly at the randy thought before turning to more serious matters.

"As you can see, your influence is far reaching," I commented casually. "Not only with your friends, but with your enemies as well." With an upraised hand, I caused reality to shift once again. This time we landed in another drab, if not dreary, office. A familiar one, to be exact.

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><p><em>Next: Klink &amp; Schultz<em>

_A/N:_

_Hogan was right to be confused about Bedford Falls. The movie It's A Wonderful Life wasn't released until 1946. Oddly, it didn't become a cult classic until years later._

_A digital (LCD) clock would certainly confuse Hogan!_

_Long before he was President, Ronald Reagan was an actor. One of his best movies, Kings Row, was released in early 1942. _

_Television was introduced at the World's Fair in 1939. You could actually pick up a card at the RCA exhibit confirming that you were 'televised' (i.e. your live image was broadcast onto a TV screen). Yippee!_

_Colditz Castle served as a POW camp during the Second World War. It was mainly used for the repeat 'hardcase' Allied escapers. The French contingent was moved out to other camps in 1943; however, it's not outside the realm of possibility that a troublesome French escaper would have ended up in that dismal place._

_As always, thanks for reading! Reviews, as always, are appreciated!_


	4. Klink & Schultz

_**Hochstetter's Stalag: Butterfly Effect**_  
><em><strong>by 80sarcades<strong>_

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><p><em>Welcome back! Enjoy the chapter!<em>

_Disclaimer: Prescribed for ocular use as needed. For reading purposes only. Do not use whilst driving as this may result in injury and a visit from Jack (Warning: visit not guaranteed). Consult your local liquor establishment if any of the following side effects appear: boredom, laziness, or lethargy. Consult a physician if your reading session lasts for more than four hours. Not suitable for politicians or anyone else with a lack of style._

_I should have the next chapter out in two or three days...I'm on vacation:-)_

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><p><em>From the last chapter:<em>

_"As you can see, your influence is far reaching," I commented casually. "Not only with your friends, but with your enemies as well." With an upraised hand, I caused reality to shift. This time, we landed in another drab, if not dreary, office. A familiar one, to be exact._

_**Chapter 4: Klink & Schultz**_

"Colonel Wilhelm Klink," my voice solemnly announced even as I waved a hand toward the motionless figure. "By military standards, a colossal failure. One wonders, with his dismal record, how he ever attained the rank of Colonel."

Surprisingly, Colonel Hogan felt the urge to come to the Kommandant's defense. At least partially. "Compared to other Stalags, life here could be worse," he interjected. "At least Klink tries to observe the Geneva Convention. That alone doesn't make him a true failure."

"Really, Colonel," I chided lightly. "And what of this morning? Your battle of the blankets, for instance? Even his single success to date - that of no escapes from this camp - is due only to your machinations. What of his failure then?

Hogan shrugged, yet said nothing.

"Even with his faults - innumerable as they may be - the man standing here has redeemable qualities of note. For instance, did you know that he was once a Prisoner of War himself?'

"No," Hogan admitted, surprised.

"True. Albeit not as long; only a few months, in fact, before the last war ended. However, it was enough to make a lasting impression on the man." I paused for a moment. "Even now, though he cannot show such, he regrets the conditions you live under. Compared to his fellow commanders, his intentions are honorable...although most of his peers have no feelings for the prisoners they guard, other than it being an odious chore."

"I didn't know," the Colonel said, his eyes idly studying the decorations on the nearby Luftwaffe uniform. "You know who he reminds me of?"

"Who is that?"

"Chairwarmers," he replied before noting my puzzled glance. "Pencil pushers," the man explained. "People that deal with paper all day. A bureaucrat. I know his type; find the right lever and you can make them do anything."

"A measure well suited to your talents," I admiringly allowed. "However, such gifts are not unique. Look here."

Hogan watched curiously as I walked over to the Kommandant's desk. For a change, my gifts are beneficial: I quickly pulled the requisite file folder from the right-hand drawer before presenting it to the American Colonel. He opened the cover and peered at the German words inside

"Authorization to release Red Cross goods shipment 43-362-83..." he muttered before his eyes traveled down to the signature line. "Generalleutant Johann Schmidt, Luftwaffe..." He frowned; why did that name sound so familiar?

"Interesting name, Johann Schmidt," I commented. I think you once said it was the German derivative of John Smith-"

"Yeah, I remember now!" Hogan blurted. "I told him to address his paperwork to that guy. Worked, too; got it off of his desk and out of his hair. Well," he said, a quirky grin on his lips, "not that he has any." I chuckled dutifully even as he curiously studied the paper once more. "So what does that have to do with this?"

"For the record, your new blankets were appropriated by a hospital," I explained. "Specifically, the recuperation camp for wounded Luftwaffe personnel just outside of Hammelburg."

Hogan's face darkened in rage before I continued.

"However," I said, "our good Colonel here found out about the intercepted shipment and managed, via paperwork, to divert it to a Luftwaffe supply warehouse. Unfortunately, the officer in charge of that facility is refusing to release the blankets without proper authorization. Hence, the papers in your hand."

"Why didn't he just ask General Burkhalter?" the Colonel asked, perplexed. "He wouldn't even have to sign anything; he'd just make a phone call."

"Because the General is not to be bothered by 'trivial matters' as he kindly put it to your dear Colonel Klink. Such problems, he believes, are unimportant compared to the war."

"Figures," Hogan muttered, his face sour.

"However," I went on, "General Schmidt - or a paper copy, at least - can order the blankets to be released. Few military organizations question the word of a General Officer; the German military especially so."

A dry laugh escaped Colonel Hogan's throat. "Let me get this straight," he mused. "The Kommandant used this Johann Schmidt character to forge some orders. You have to be kidding, right?" he asked, his tone incredulous. "I mean, this is Klink we're talking about!" He pointed a finger towards the motionless Luftwaffe Colonel. "The man can't even get a date without using schnapps! Even then, I doubt he'd get anywhere!"

"Come now, Colonel," I coolly replied, "after all, who would suspect a thing? That a man considered to be an idiot at best could pull off such a feat? Even your recent meeting in the office was part of the 'con,' as you Americans would say. He knew you would eventually ask for the blankets; all he had to do was play his natural part and stall for time until he could get the shipment released. Then everyone would be happy."

I watched as Hogan's mind clicked; suddenly, several earlier events made sense. "He's done this before, hasn't he?" Hogan said rhetorically, his voice normal as he looked at the paper in his hand.

"On a small scale," I confirmed. "Materials for camp projects here; a coal shipment there. All diverted in small enough quantities to unarouse suspicion. In a way, you should be flattered, Colonel: indirectly he finally enjoys success, though not in a way he ever dreamed of. The Kommandant enjoys his secret role of 'General'; your men are taken care of to the best of his ability. All in part to you."

Hogan stared at the unmoving Kommandant for a long minute. "Klink, a con artist," he murmured, a sly smile on his lips. "Who would have guessed?"

"Correct," I replied, my voice dryly calm. "However, it exemplifies the truism: even the best of con men can be taken on occasion, can they not?"

Hogan's head snapped up; hooded eyes met mine as realization slowly dawned. And then, he slowly chuckled. As I watched, the mirth turned into a full-fledged laugh; tears rolled down his cheeks as he doubled over in laughter. Eventually, he was able to catch his breath and calm down; for my part, I wondered what was so humorous.

"War is hell, isn't it?" he managed to eventually choke out. I merely nodded in return.

"That it is, my dear Colonel," I softly replied. "That it is. In more ways than can be counted." At that moment, I snapped my fingers...

...and the lingering traces of Hogan's laughter faded away as our world _changed_. The square outlines of the office were quickly replaced by the flat landscape of a desolate plain. Save for several trees, the terrain was remarkably bare of life; the sound of a cold wind rustling the empty branches echoed eerily about us.

"Russia," I answered the unspoken question. "And to Colonel Wilhelm Klink's alternate - and quite unfortunate - end."

Hogan, puzzled, glanced at his new surroundings. Then just as quickly, he examined the formless earth beneath his feet. Once again I marveled at how his mind quickly discerned the truth of our presence.

"You are correct, Colonel," I solemnly intoned. "To be specific, we are standing on his grave. Among others."

I watched amusedly as Hogan quickly stepped onto another – and hopefully corpse-free – patch of earth. Even in the modern age, superstitions last; the dead do not care either way.

"Without your stabilizing presence, Stalag 13 became a hive of escapes underneath the rule of Kommandant Klink," I explained. "Eventually he was replaced and sent to the Russian Front. Due to his rank, a small bit of luck came his way: he was assigned to be a courier."

"It didn't last," Hogan prompted. I nodded slowly.

"Surprisingly, he was the only one to survive the crash of his aeroplane. The secret documents he carried proved his worth only until his interrogators found out his true nature."

I paused, 'seeing' the next events. "Even in death, honor was denied the poor Colonel," I continued. "Along with others, he was consigned to this mass grave; their only marker the earth above. In his case, it was as if life and death were synonymous: in life, no one cared to remember him; in death, no one remembered to care."

The Colonel sadly shook his head. "The first time I saw Klink, I thought someone was playing a joke," he remembered. "It seemed everyone at Dulag Luft had a crack at me. When they sent me to Stalag 13, I was expecting the worst. Instead, I ran into a wallflower."

"Not the iron eagle you were expecting," I ventured. Hogan chuckled softly.

"Yeah," he replied. "Like I said, I knew his type. After a while it was easy to push his buttons, though he surprised me at times." He stared at the ground again with a rueful expression on his face.

"I guess I forgot," he said quietly. "It was easy to see the Kommandant as a uniform. Someone to pump up or deflate when I needed him. I forgot he was a man." His hand waved at the empty expanse of buried death. "No one deserves that."

"The measure of a man is found not in strength, but in recognizing his own faults," I lectured gently. "You were not alone in your assessment of the good Colonel; many before you have seen only air in place of his immortal soul. If it helps, you may take comfort knowing that Wilhelm Klink will survive this war. Thanks to you, he will one day have the opportunity to shape his own destiny free of any encumbrances. Shall we return?"

The Senior POW nodded; the office soon reformed around us. His eyes, tinged with regret, landed momentarily on the still form of Colonel Klink before we walked towards Barracks Two. As we walked down the steps of the Kommandtur, Colonel Hogan paused to look at the obese figure of Sergeant Schultz.

"What about him?" he asked, jerking a thumb towards the unmoving man. My eyes glanced at the subject; within seconds I knew all.

"A good man," I judged. "With or without your influence, he dies peacefully in old age," My lips quirked into a small smile as I observed the pertinent circumstances. "Oddly, in both instances he is tending to flowers when he passes on. Given his penchant for toy making, I would have assumed he would have been woodcarving."

"He does love kids," Hogan commented, then sighed. "If there's someone who doesn't belong here, it's Schultz. His heart just isn't in it." He chuckled dryly. "He's about the only guard I know who will hand me his rifle. God only knows where he keeps the ammo for it."

"True," I replied. "If left to his own devices, he would be still be in charge of his toy company. Instead, he plays soldier in an all-too-real war. He took pride in seeing his country return to greatness, yet he quietly deplores the policies of the government he serves. Do you know, for instance, that his wife shelters two Jewish children?"

The Colonel's glance flicked to Schultz, surprise in his eyes. "No," he admitted, his voice shocked. "No, I didn't."

"Not that anyone knows, of course. Ostensibly they are distant relatives; children who were evacuated to the countryside in order to escape the destruction in the cities," I explained. "Ironically, 'experts' have certified them as true Aryans. However, the name of Auschwitz will forever haunt their lives."

I raised my hand to forestall the inevitable question. "Forgive me for straying off topic, Colonel," I said in apology. "At times, I forget what I can truly see. As I was saying, Hans Schultz lives a simple life...with the difference of your influence."

Hogan wrinkled his brow in thought. "You said he had a long life," he pointed out. "That he died peacefully. I'm not sure what, if anything, I could have done to improve on that."

"Ah, but you are far too modest, Colonel Hogan," I casually mentioned. "The part I refer to is the quality of his life. Without your presence, Sergeant Schultz passes a rather uneventful war as a guard of sorts, or training others for that task. Only towards the end is he compelled to take up arms against the enemy. Even then he orders the men - older men, to be sure - under his command to disperse instead of fight. A man of common sense," I said admiringly.

"However, in a world where your paths cross he is a man of authority, albeit minor," my voice continued. "He is the Sergeant of the Guard, in command of men; his camp boasts no escapes presumably to his due diligence. Yet like the Centurion in Matthew, he cares for those in his charge. Even if, despite his boast, he knows more than he should."

The Colonel's face, a trifle pale, looked at my own. "How much does he know?"

"More than the 'monkey business' he speaks of," I said. "Behind his tired facade lurks an intelligent mind. The good Sergeant knows you help prisoners from other camps to escape; he suspects your role in sabotage, not to mention your true identity."

Hogan peered thoughtfully at Schultz for a long moment. At times like these I envy mortals; knowing another's thoughts does seem rather mundane, if not depressing, at times.

"I've never seen Schultz as the enemy," the Colonel admitted, sadness in his voice. "I doubt anyone here would. He's practically one of us, you know. If I could get away with it, I'd have the next airdrop full of Hershey bars." He snorted once before going on. "He's just in the wrong place at the wrong time. No matter what reality you're in."

I smiled. "Perhaps, Colonel," my voice acknowledged. "Then again, he has something else to compensate his soul: pride, and doubly so. His peers recognize his supposed abilities; his uniform enables him to stand tall in importance. Even then, he takes a secret – one might say, almost joyous - pleasure in your numerous actions."

"In us?" Hogan exclaimed, his voice incredulous. "The airmen we send on to England come back to bomb the hell out of Germany! That doesn't count the sabotage we carry out. And he's proud of that?"

"Yes," I replied. "Because in the end, you and your men fight the Nazi regime and not the Fatherland itself. Duty, not hate, is your watchword in battle; your targets of military value instead of innocent lives. He believes that is enough to assuage him of his guilt, as it were."

Hogan was silent for a long moment. At that moment, the calculating mask the Colonel wore vanished; in its place was a look of deep concern. "That's called giving aid and comfort to the enemy," he remarked quietly. "Treason."

"Yes, it is," I said. "Just as you are giving aid and comfort in his life." I raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Not a bad trade-off, if I may say so."

"Maybe," the Colonel allowed, albeit reluctantly. "Maybe." For a moment, his thoughtful eyes studied Schultz before I gently coughed to gain his attention.

I then waved my hand towards the barracks. "Shall we continue?"

We entered the dingy structure once more. Hogan watched intently as I walked up to one particular individual.

_Next: Andrew Carter_

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><p><em>AN:_

_Is anyone really surprised that Klink ended up on the Russian Front? The poor man just has no luck…and I didn't have the heart to do anything bad to Schultz. _

_In 'Klink and the Gonculator.' Hogan suggested that Klink send all of his paperwork to an anonymous 'Johann Schmidt.' _

_A Centurion was one of the backbones of the Roman Army (roughly equivalent to an officer). In Matthew 8:5-13 a Centurion came to Jesus and asked him to heal a servant who was suffering from palsy. Because of his faith, his request was granted. What makes that passage all the more interesting is the actual history: a Centurion was in charge of unit discipline…and was usually pretty heavy-handed at it! _

_The Nazi State had a whole slew of laws pertaining to being Jewish. Among other (godawful) things, 'experts' had tools to determine if someone was Aryan or not. One of these – and I can't recall what it was called – measured the nose, cheekbones, and the like to determine if someone had a 'Jewish' facial structure (and therefore was possibly a Jew, heaven forbid). Thankfully, the devices were flops…a number of masquerading Jewish children were found to be properly German._

_As to the laws determining racial purity: I once found an account of a German (I believe he was either a reporter or a lawyer) who had American Indian blood in his ancestry. He documented his family history in his ancestor passport (__Ahnenpass)__, submitted it when required, and waited on pins and needles to see what the judgment would be. He was found to be of Aryan stock. Go figure._

_Thanks for reading! _


	5. Andrew Carter

**_Hochstetter's Stalag: Butterfly Effect_**  
><strong><em>by 80sarcades<em>**

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><p><em>My apologies for the late update; editing took longer than I thought. I would have had it out earlier, but my kids and I were out playing with fireworks this evening. Welcome back, and have a nice day! As always, thanks for reading.<em>

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><p><em><strong>Chapter 5: Andrew Carter<strong>_

We entered the dingy structure once more. Hogan watched as I walked up to one particular individual.

"Andrew Carter," I remarked. "A most peculiar individual, even for a Prisoner of War. One would say almost unique for this camp, in fact."

The Senior POW smiled fondly. "Carter probably is," he grinned. "Did you know he keeps a little bunny down in the tunnel?"

"Oh?" I turned, my curiosity piqued.

"His name's Binky," Hogan went on. "Made out of plastic explosive. He calls it his good luck charm."

I chuckled lightly before my eyes returned to the still figure. "A fine name," I said. "Your words do say much about the man. In most ways he is an innocent at heart; I daresay that he would have returned from this war unmarked, save for circumstances."

The Colonel went rigidly still. "Would have?"

I raised an eyebrow; the words were casual enough. However, the despair behind them was evident to my ears. Instead of answering, I raised my hand. "Observe for yourself," I called out. With a snap of my fingers, reality reformed into a new world.

The neat interior of a house surrounded us now; simple, yet tasteful furnishings decorated the living room we stood in. I watched as Hogan eyed the boxy – yet still fascinating, to him – television that sat directly across from a well-worn brown recliner. He then turned his head in my direction before flashing me a cocky grin. "I'll have to get one of these," he said cheerfully. "Either that, or I'll have to buy some stock in Zenith. I take it this is Carter's home?"

"The residence of Andrew Carter, ten years from now," I clarified. At that moment, precisely on cue, the homeowner walked in through the front door. The Senior POW studied his Sergeant – no, former Sergeant, he reminded himself – intently. Save for a tailored suit, there was no obvious physical differences between this man and his earlier version in the Stalag. Still, something about the man before him bothered the Colonel; unfortunately, he wasn't able to put his finger on it. Yet.

Meanwhile, Mr. Carter - naturally unaware of our presence - carefully laid his suit jacket across a nearby chair before walking out of our view and into another room. A moment later the sound of water, then a clattering pan, reached our ears; clearly, the man was about to make dinner.

"He seems...different, somehow," Hogan said aloud, unable to shake the strange feeling away. He shrugged, then looked around the spartan room for any other clues. Oddly, the room was tidy; he would have expected to see newspapers or magazines scattered around the barren area. His eye was then drawn to a number of photo frames sitting on the mantel of the nearby fireplace. An older couple, presumably Carter's parents, smiled from several of the images. Other individuals - _friends? family members? I can see a resemblance in some of them_ - cheerfully beamed warmth from their wooden frames.

However, it was the image in the center frame that grabbed the Colonel's immediate attention. The twinkling eyes of a beautiful woman gazed beyond her glass and into the depths of his soul. For a moment, Hogan marveled at how much life was captured in the simple photograph; even more, an almost physical presence seemed to be present in the room.

"His wife," I supplied helpfully, being privy to his thoughts. The American officer nodded.

"Carter's a lucky man," he said enviously.

"Was," I corrected. Hogan closed his eyes for a moment before sighing heavily.

"Was..." he muttered, shaking his head sadly before his eyes returned to the photograph. "What went wrong?" the Colonel finally asked.

"Life, as you well know, is rarely a bowl of cherries," I explained softly. "Mr. Carter has known an equal share of misfortune as well as luck. Without your presence, however, things will take quite the downturn."

"You're getting pretty good at that," Hogan growled sarcastically. I could hear the annoyance in his voice; clearly, it pained him to see his men out of sorts.

"Tell me," I wondered, though I already knew the answer, "What makes Andrew Carter so special? What makes him different from the rest of your team?"

The Colonel thought for a moment. "In some ways, he never grew up," he finally replied. "For Carter, it's just one big game. Sometimes I envy him."

"Because he's innocent in certain ways?"

"Yeah," the American admitted. "He'll go home and live his life without a care in the world. No bad dreams, no regrets. Carter will just be Carter."

"Which you encouraged," I said. "As I said, he is an unique individual. However, the sword of virtue can easily twist back upon its holder." I raised my right hand. "Observe."

* * *

><p>The scene changed into the recognizable outlines of a Prisoner-of-War camp. A younger version of Carter stood outside along with other Allied airmen as they watched a game in progress.<p>

"What camp is this?" Hogan asked.

"Stalag Four," I told him. "In the area you know as Poland. As before, Mr. Carter was captured and sent to Stalag 13. However, without your influence, he eventually was transferred here...to this place," I said, spitting out the last word with distaste.

The Senior POW glanced around. Just looking at the guards gave him chills; the nasty looks they occasionally gave the prisoners bordered on outright hatred. For a moment, he grimaced at the thought of being in a real prison camp. _It'd almost be worth getting sent to Colditz_, he reflected.

_God, is this what it would have been like? None of the camps near us are this bad! Or does being in Germany make some sort of difference?_

The Colonel shrugged the thought away before concentrating on their intended subject. This Carter, he quickly noted, seemed somewhat subdued although occasional glimpses of the man he knew peeked out every so often.

"He's depressed, but who wouldn't be in a place like this?" Hogan judged. "Right now I want to escape, and I don't even live here!"

"True," I acknowledged. "The desire for freedom is a strong one. However, the cumulative effects of imprisonment take their toll on any spirit. Especially so for the innocent mind."

"Mr. Carter, for example, is a prime candidate," I went on. "Already he has seen war; with effort, he was able to contain the images therein. To block it out as if it were a bad dream, for instance. However, his innocence has been slowly chipped away, day after day, by man's inhumanity towards his own kind. Even at that, he might have survived intact save for the end."

The scene changed again. This time the camp was gone; in its place was a long line of prisoners and their guards on a frozen roadway. Raw, impotent anger gripped Hogan tightly as he saw the ragged column of men march sullenly past him. Icy winds, along with flecks of snow, sliced relentlessly into the Allied prisoners; hands, most without gloves, were pushed into pockets that provided little protection against the freezing cold. As the Colonel watched, snarling guards prodded their charges along with yelling and, on occasion, rifle butts to various parts of the body.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

"Eventually this war - like those before it - will come to an end," I gently explained to the agonized American officer. "An enemy will approach; the defenders will flee and in this instance take their detritus of war with them. Look there."

The Colonel turned. With widened eyes, he watched helplessly as Carter came into view. This time, however, he wasn't alone; the Sergeant and another enlisted man resolutely staggered together down the limitless road. His heart went out to the desperate look of pain on the Sergeant's weary face as he desperately tried to hold his dazed buddy up.

"Greg Anderson," I commented. "A childhood friend, reunited in prison camp. They've been able to support each other in their dismal hell. At least until now."

Frustrated, Hogan watched silently as Carter finally lost his battle to keep his ailing friend upright. Those few prisoners that dared to help the two enlisted men were quickly forced back into line by their ever-present minders. Meanwhile, the Sergeant frantically pleaded with the screaming guards to give him a minute while he tried to rouse his unconscious friend. The commotion attracted the attention of a SS officer whose unit was nearby; unnoticed, the man walked in their direction.

Carter looked up just in time to watch the newcomer pull a pistol from a gleaming leather holster. In an instant, he suddenly launched himself towards the armed man in a desperate attempt to save his comrade. His frantic maneuver was cut short by a guard's rifle as the butt slammed into his ribcage, knocking the breath from his lungs and sending him rolling to the ground. The enlisted man, weakened and in agonizing pain, could only watch as the officer casually leveled the pistol at the head of his friend.

The sharp *crack* of the shot startled the other prisoners; within seconds, they quickened their pace down the road. The nervous guards watched as the self-appointed executioner mockingly commented on the weakness of Allied scum. Suddenly, with a sadistic laugh, he aimed the weapon towards the second airman. At that moment, he was interrupted as another uniformed SS man, this one of enlisted rank, ran up to the officer with a message in his hand. The recipient hurriedly scanned the form and quickly began to bark out orders even before he turned away. With a final glare of hatred, the officer rejoined his unit. A hand from one of the guards grabbed Carter's arm before forcing him to rise to his feet; another gloved appendage shoved him back towards his comrades. His face, still tinged with deep shock, matched his distant empty eyes even as his body rejoined the column of prisoners.

Alone.

A wave of my hand returned us to the living room of the future Carter. The former Sergeant was now writing a letter at a nearby table. Except for the scratching of his pen, the room was otherwise silent; Hogan gave the man a long glance.

"I wonder if he ever smiles," the Colonel wondered. "At Stalag 13, he was just about the happiest man in camp; he always had a grin on his face. At first, I figured he was just trying to keep his spirits up. A defense."

"Not the true man you came to know."

Hogan nodded. "He was just happy. Not this," he almost spat, pointing a finger at the solemn figure. "So what happened later on?"

"As expected, Mr. Carter followed through on his postwar plans and became a pharmacist and business owner of some standing. However, despite success, he was never quite able to escape his personal demons."

"What about his wife?" the Colonel asked, motioning towards the picture on the mantel.

"Daphne Coleman," I supplied. "A nurse. She came into his life four years after the end of the war." My eyes glared annoyingly at the photograph. It was bad enough looking at mortals and knowing the details of their annoying lives; it was even worse when I could do it from a two-dimensional image. "Both of them had known war, though her conflict began in a place called Bataan. With time, the memories that scarred both of their souls might have begun to heal."

Hogan glanced over at Carter again before a heavy sigh escaped his lips. I could see the unspoken question in his silent eyes.

"She didn't leave, Colonel," I gently explained. "Not voluntarily. They were returning from a party one evening when an intoxicated driver smashed into their motorcar. Mr. Carter survived, as did the instigator. However, his wife did not. Nor did the unborn child in her womb."

"My God," the officer muttered, his face pale.

"Any mortal with a conscience would have difficulty in dealing with the loss of a loved one. For Mr. Carter, his tragedy hearkened back to the loss of years past: he was unable to save either his friend or his wife from their designated fates." I paused before deliberately locking eyes with Hogan.

Behind him, almost unnoticed, Mr. Carter signed his letter before putting the pen away. He folded the pages with precision neatness before placing the small packet into an envelope and sealing it. With care, the former POW then arranged the flat object on the table before standing up from his chair. For a moment, his eyes lovingly glanced at the photo of his deceased wife; a small smile curled his lips before he donned his suit jacket once more. With his attention diverted, Hogan was unaware of these events.

But I, however, am Death. As I said, I know and see all.

"Despite the tragedy, Mr. Carter's life went on," my voice smoothly continued. "Naturally, he grieved for his beloved wife. Like many men before him, he threw himself into his work; coming home, once a joy, was now singularly unpleasant. As you no doubt noticed, this version of your Sergeant never remarried. Instead he merely lived, with nightmares as his constant companion."

"Not much of a life," Hogan observed sadly.

"Correct," I said. "Even those of good will have their breaking point. As was for Mr. Carter." Slowly, and quite deliberately, I glanced off to my right.

Hogan, curious, started to follow my gaze…and then quickly whirled around when he heard the telltale sound of a rifle bolt slamming into place. Carter, now sitting on the recliner, was calmly examining a hunting rifle that lay across his lap. Suddenly, in one smooth motion, his quick hands lifted the weapon upward and into a vertical position. The hollow thud of the butt hitting the hardwood floor beneath his feet had barely echoed throughout the room before the businessman leaned forward in his seat. Carter closed his eyes and smiled gratefully as the black muzzle moved underneath his chin; the final action belatedly jarred the Colonel from his frozen stupor.

"CARTER! NO!" Hogan shrieked, breaking free from his rooted spot. He leaped forward and desperately dove for the former Sergeant just as the seated man put a finger on the trigger...

...and instead landed on the hard wooden floor of the barracks, the suicidal tableau gone. The distant, almost impalpable sound of a gunshot reached our ears even as the Colonel rolled over, a look of rage on his face.

"You _bastard_," Hogan hissed, tears of anger welling up in his eyes. "You knew! You knew Carter was going to…" His words faltered off; he was unable to voice the words foremost on his mind.

"Sadly, I did," I candidly replied. "What might have been, would have been. Unfortunately, I can only observe; I am forbidden to take action. No matter how it may end." My calm eyes met his still-emotional ones for a long moment. "Do you really believe," I asked conversationally, "that I enjoy watching scenes such as that?"

"God..." the Colonel muttered disgustedly before lapsing into silence. After a moment, a shaking hand wiped the watery streaks from his cheeks before he slowly rose to his feet. He walked over to Carter - his Carter - and quietly stared at him for several moments before turning to face me again. "Does he..." his wavering voice began, then stopped. Instead, the eyes of the American officer looked at me helplessly before I broke the quiet stillness.

"No," I said reassuringly. "In reality, part of what I showed you actually did happen: Mr. Carter did lose his wife in an accident. It may interest you to know, my dear Colonel, that your Sergeant will eventually remarry and enjoy a happy life. In their old age, Mr. Carter and his new wife will travel the United States in a recreational vehicle." I waved away the fresh confusion in Hogan's eyes before pressing onward. "And without any personal demons, I might add. All thanks to you."

Hogan slowly shook his head even as he turned to look at Carter again. "How can one person have an effect on so many lives?" he softly wondered aloud. "It just doesn't seem possible."

"All things are possible, Colonel," I remarked. "Especially so for this one."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Next: Chapter 6 - Peter Newkirk<em>**


	6. Peter Newkirk

_**Hochstetter's Stalag: Butterfly Effect**_  
><em><strong>by 80sarcades<strong>_

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><p><em>Welcome back, and enjoy!<em>

_To St PA: Thank you for the blessing, and for your kind review! Yes, you're correct: Hogan should have been the only one on the 'teaser' list. Unfortunately, I couldn't put in my own character; I went with 'Hochstetter' since he did make a cameo appearance. Sorry!_

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><p>From the last chapter:<p>

_"All things are possible, Colonel," I remarked. "Especially so for this one." _

_**Chapter 6: Peter Newkirk**_

I reached out and tapped Englishman's motionless shoulder with a slender finger. Hogan eyed his man with feigned disinterest.

"How so?" he asked reluctantly. I could well understand his hesitation; as I said before, the Colonel was unwilling to see any of his men suffer needlessly. Nevertheless, I proceeded.

"Peter Newkirk," I announced formally. "A man whose talents you found useful for your operation." My head cocked to one side as I studied the blue-uniformed individual for a brief moment. "Ironic, isn't it?" I commented lightly. "The very qualities that make him valuable in war prove to be detrimental in peace. It brings to mind the old American saying: soldiers and dogs keep off the grass."

"Personally, I'd take Newkirk any day," Hogan interjected in the enlisted man's defense. "He's a good man, con artist or not." His lips then cocked into a cheeky grin. "Besides, he taught me how to pick a lock. You never know when that'll be useful."

"Perhaps," I allowed. "And then there are the qualities that you taught him, if only indirectly. Shall we see his fate without your presence?"

"Do I have a choice?" Hogan quipped sourly.

"Every mortal has a choice, Colonel," I chided reproachfully. "The real question is the action that results. Observe."

With a blur, our world changed. This time, we stood in the middle of a small jail cell. The harsh glare of the bare bulb above our heads illuminated a sad interior of peeling paint and green-colored walls. A man, his face cast in dark shadow, lay on a bunk bed situated on one side of the dreary chamber. Despite preparing for the worst, the Colonel's face still grimaced at the sight of his Corporal.

"Newkirk," he muttered sadly, shaking his head. He walked to the cell bars and peered out only to depressingly see more hard steel and concrete. The Senior POW turned away from the sad sight and instead walked over to the nearby rack. Curious, he knelt down to observe what the sole occupant was writing; to his surprise, it was some sort of lyrical poem. The officer's sad eyes washed over the still form of the figure before him; it was all he could do not to grab the man's arm and reassure him in some way.

"How did you ever end up here?" he murmured aloud, his eyes continuing to read the poem – _actually, it's a pretty good one. At least he still has a sense of humor! –_ from across Newkirk's shoulder.

"For murder, actually," I answered.

"Impossible!" Hogan blurted, jumping to his feet before whirling around to face me. "Newkirk might be many things, but he's no murderer! You're wrong!"

"I'm afraid not, Colonel," my voice replied. "As I said, his talents were double edged. As before, Mr. Newkirk became a Prisoner of War. Without your guiding influence, however, he honed his skills at thievery by practicing on his enemies. It was only natural to return to his old ways upon his return home."

"I can see that," the officer said, a trifle angrily. "But I repeat: he's not a murderer. I'd bet my life on that."

"And you would be correct," I affirmed. "Your judgment is sound; however, the decision of fortune stands against your good Corporal." I waved a hand at the inmate who quite obviously took no notice of us. "You are looking at a man both innocent and guilty, Colonel," I explained. "Guilty of the burglary he was responsible for; innocent of the murder he was convicted of. He now resides here at Her Majesty's Prison, Wandsworth." My eyes glanced distastefully at the surroundings. "Awaiting execution," I added.

"Dear God!" the American officer exclaimed, a look of disbelief still in his eyes. "What about appeals? He's innocent, for God's sake!"

"From a police perspective, it was an open-and-shut case," I informed the Colonel. "A shot was heard; the butler found Mr. Newkirk standing over the deceased with a pistol laying nearby. The prosecutor successfully argued that the accused was surprised by the homeowner during the course of a robbery. Allegedly, Mr. Newkirk was seized by a fit of sudden remorse after he fired the fatal shot; his hesitation to immediately flee the scene led to his eventual capture. In reality, his partner in crime committed the deed though he was never tried for it."

For a moment, Colonel Hogan's searching eyes probed mine while his mind digested the awful truth. Instead of replying, he turned back towards the future version of his Corporal. Unsurprisingly, I only felt a mixture of sorrow and anger from his tormented mind even as he studied the man on the bunk.

"This is what would have happened had you not been in his life," I said gently. "Not the way it will be for your own Mr. Newkirk. You gave him something that everyone needs: hope."

"How?" the Senior POW asked. "Newkirk always struck me as a survivor. Until now I was pretty convinced that he could crawl through a sewer and come up smelling like roses. Not like this," he complained, pointing his right hand toward the Englishman. "Everyone has hope. He just had really bad luck."

"For your Corporal, hope is a precious commodity," I contradicted him. "His upbringing was hard. As a child, then later an adult, thievery and card dealing was easier than working for his wages. It brought him a certain degree of respect from those who practiced such things. However, Stalag 13 changed him for the better."

Hogan shrugged. "War does that," he said indifferently, though I could feel his inherent disgust at mentioning the first word. "It exposes you to new experiences; otherwise, the Newkirk I know would still be in London."

He waved a hand around the barren cell. "Carter…" For a moment, his voice choked slightly on the name before he regained control. "For all I know, Carter could have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. LeBeau was just really unlucky; Klink never had any to begin with. Kinch managed to escape being a POW. All of these might still have happened if I was around." He paused for a moment, eyes thoughtful. "How does being at one lousy camp change things?" he quietly asked. "One man can't change that many lives. It's not possible."

"I beg to differ, Colonel," I retorted. "Really, have you learned nothing from our little exercises? It takes only one person to improve another life, subtly or not. You, along with your men, gave Mr. Newkirk hope. You gave him the knowledge that he could look beyond what he now was and instead do better for himself; to care for others instead of looking for his own interests. In the end, he returns from this war a changed man. Not a great man, by any means...but a good man. Shall we see?"

Hogan nodded eagerly. "Anything is better than this."

Instantly, our reality shifted; this time we stood on a city street. Cars, futuristic and boxy, lined the streets in the afternoon twilight. By this time, I was not surprised when Hogan quickly took note of our surroundings.

"London? The future?"

"Yes, on both counts," I replied before checking my watch. Satisfied, I closed the cover and placed it back in its pocket before turning to my charge.

"Our destination is ahead, Colonel," I said. "However, we have some time. Shall we enjoy a pleasant stroll?"

* * *

><p>For his part, Hogan didn't know what to make of the future.<p>

_I guess the Allies won the war,_ he thought. _I hope so, anyway. And it makes sense that technology advanced. Twenty years ago, people were flying biplanes. Radio sets were just coming in; then you had silent pictures giving way to talking ones. Nowadays, we can fly a B-17 almost anywhere. Our radio is powerful enough to talk to London, and—_

The buzz of a low-flying aircraft interrupted his thoughts. The Colonel's eyes flicked up in time to see a sleek aircraft – a helicopter! – fly past, lights blazing.

_There's another advancement I'd like to get my hands on_, he excitedly thought. Just then, he remembered the strange clock he saw in the older Kinchloe's office; that was something to look forward to as well.

_And who knows?_ he mused. _Maybe the Japanese are making all of our cars in the future! If you believe that, then the Chinese are making everything else._

_Whatever the case, I know one thing: The future is so bright, I'm going to have to wear sunglasses to keep up! _

The Senior POW then looked over at his time-traveling companion. Strangely, given the circumstances, the man casually, if not calmly, walked along the dimly lit street as if he hadn't a care in the world.

_And maybe he doesn't_, the Colonel pondered. _Whatever the case, I know one thing: my job might be lousy at times – and that doesn't count dealing with Klink! – but I sure wouldn't want his! _

Hogan eyed Death – or whatever he called himself – for a brief moment before turning his attention back to the future surroundings.

The London he knew - bombed and blacked out, rationed yet resilient - was long gone. In its place was a vibrant city teeming with life. The Colonel blinked as one of those forms of life appeared from a nearby doorway. The creature - Hogan was reluctant to call it a man - was dressed in black leather and had shiny metal chains dangling from its jacket. More shockingly, its head was shaved except for a narrow strip down the middle; the hair there stood straight up and was colored bright red!

_What the hell is that?_

As the thing trotted across the street another oddity, this one underneath the harsh glow of a streetlamp, caught his watchful eye. It was a tall blue box with lit windows and an illuminated sign that seemed somehow out of place in the modern world. As he watched, a man dressed in a leather trench coat disappeared through a door on one side; a moment later, the structure began to slowly vanish from view with a grinding sound until it was gone from sight.

_Forget I asked. _

Distracted, Hogan failed to notice their destination. Oddly, just before descending a set of concrete stairs, Hogan's eye caught sight of an elderly gentleman standing on the nearby sidewalk. The dim light that was reflected from a nearby building revealed a sad, almost haunted look on the stranger's features; the cold air that washed over the bundled up passerby seemingly had no effect at all on the solitary figure. A sense of _deja vu_ washed over the American Colonel; the face was more than vaguely familiar to his mind, yet for some reason he couldn't quite place it.

The Colonel shrugged the eerie feeling away before following Death into their final destination. To his surprise, he found himself standing in the ticket hall of an Underground station: King's Cross/St Pancras. A newspaper on a nearby newsstand gave the date: 18 November 1987.

_What are we doing here?_ he wondered, though he already dreaded the unknown answer.

* * *

><p>I quickly perused the Colonel's thoughts. Obviously he was curious as to why we were here. He would find out soon enough.<p>

Already the first signs were appearing in the ticket hall, though there was only minor concern among the various occupants. Hogan, strangely enough, was more worried about it than the mortals here, though what was to come would not harm him.

"Fire," he observed, a note of controlled distress in his voice. Understandable, of course. His barracks, like the others in Stalag 13, were made of flammable wood.

"Yes," I nodded. "A somewhat common occurrence on the Underground line. The fire services are almost here."

_Not that it will do them any good._

By now, grey smoke was flowing upward from the affected escalator shaft. There was some urgency now, though any sense of panic was mostly muted. Another set of escalators brought people up from the tube platforms below. Meanwhile, the station staff worked calmly with the arriving fire personnel to direct people through the open ticket gates before they ascended the stairs to the city streets.

"This isn't an ordinary fire, isn't it?" Hogan asked me, our eyes both still on the crowd before us.

"No," I said quietly. Even as I breathed the word, there was a muted rumble from beneath the polished floor. Thick, black smoke suddenly filled the ticket hall, reducing visibility to zero even as panicked screams and choking gasps filled the now-dense air. With a snap of my fingers, the smoke became as crystal to Hogan and myself. For others, their survival now depended on blind luck.

"Look there!" I sounded out, pointing as a now-familiar figure came into view. Hogan's eyes widened in surprise as an older - yet still recognizable - Peter Newkirk stepped off one of the still-functioning escape escalators before plunging, choking and gasping, into the smoky darkness.

"Look, Colonel!" I called again. "Here is the culmination of your influence, the results of which not even you could dream! Watch and observe the hour of death!"

* * *

><p><em>Next: Peter Newkirk – the Conclusion, and Epilogue<em>

_A/N: Would you recognize yourself some forty years in the future?_

_I couldn't resist having Hogan paraphrase a mid-80's song 'The Future's So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades.' And it's a pretty sure bet that the Tenth Doctor (Doctor Who) will be somewhere in the UK!_

_The phrase 'soldiers and dogs keep off the grass' may or may not be an urban legend. Supposedly, such signs (for sailors) existed in certain places (East Coast?) back in the 1970's. However, during the 1930's, there was no denying that the some of the actual sentiment expressed in the signs existed. First, the Army's response to the Bonus March in 1932 gave it a figurative black eye. Then there was the feeling among some (and this was during the Great Depression!) that a soldier in the Army couldn't hold down a real job elsewhere. It also didn't help that Judges here and there gave potential convicts an option: enlist, or go to prison._

_By 1939, the Army literally had a bare cupboard to draw from. Thanks to a parsimonious Congress (and remember, the country was not out of the Depression yet), troops were having to train with obsolete WWI weapons and ammo (though newer versions were coming soon) and the Army would eventually conduct war games where the word 'TANK' was painted on the doors of trucks. If I remember correctly, senior Army officers wore civilian clothes to congressional hearings so they wouldn't antagonize certain members of Congress._

_Isolationism – the belief that this country shouldn't be entangled in foreign conflicts (which hearkened back to the days of George Washington, his Neutrality Proclamation (America staying neutral in the war between France, Spain and Britain), and telling Citizen Genêt what he could do with his violations of said measure) – and a two ocean barrier (let the Navy deal with it!) nearly cost America dearly when our part of the War arrived. _

_Sorry for the lengthy history lesson. As always, thanks for reading!  
><em>


	7. Peter Newkirk The Conclusion

**_Hochstetter's Stalag: Butterfly Effect  
><em>_by 80sarcades_**

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><p><em>Welcome back to the final chapter, and thank you for reading! Sorry for the really late update; I offer no pathetic excuses other than real life. A big 'thank you' to everyone who voted for my stories in the Papa Bear Awards. The results were very much appreciated!<em>

_Disclaimer: Jack is mine, unless he comes knocking on my door._

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><p><em>From the last chapter:<em>

_"Look there!" I sounded out, pointing as a now-familiar figure came into view. Hogan's eyes widened in surprise as an older - yet still recognizable - Peter Newkirk stepped off one of the still-functioning escape escalators before plunging into the smoky darkness._

_"Look, Colonel!" I called again. "Here is the culmination of your influence, the results of which not even you could dream! Watch and observe the hour of death!"_

**_Chapter 7: Peter Newkirk – The Conclusion, and Epilogue_**

_Peter Newkirk ascended into hell._

_Instinctively, he forced himself to calm down and not give into the hot panic that swirled around him. Fortunately, the station was familiar to his mind though it did him little good; the terrifying darkness caused by the obsidian smoke made navigation next to impossible. Occasionally, another body – whether male or female, it was impossible to tell – lurched into his form; only good fortune and balance kept him from being knocked to the floor. Choking and gasping, the Englishman blindly staggered along until his outstretched hand collided with a hard rubber object. After a moment, his fingers recognized it for what it was: an open gate on one of the ticket machines. _

_With a fresh burst of energy, he pulled his body through the narrow opening before launching himself into uncharted space. Luck was with the former POW: his hand met the solid corner of a wall just as a shaft of white light – only a glimmer, but still recognizable to his stinging eyes – tore through the dank smoke. Within moments, another glowing cone illuminated the same pathway. Like its predecessor, it came from the world above._

_The way out._

_At that moment Peter realized that he was only some thirty to forty feet from the steps leading to the street level and safety. He started to push himself in that direction...and then stopped as terrified screams penetrated his consciousness once more. Belatedly, he immediately realized that the other people in the station had no chance to escape the dark smoke. Not without help. In a second, the decision was easy to make._

_"Everyone!" he forced out, coughing violently as his lungs gagged on the acrid fumes of the smoke, "The way out is over here! This way! Follow my voice!"_

_Over and over, Newkirk flung his desperate message into the black void. Slowly – far too slowly - figures appeared from the shadows; he grabbed their arms or bodies before pushing them towards the exit. Two women, recognizable only by their voices. A young girl, perched on her mother's shoulder, her shadowed features briefly illuminated by a patch of reflected light. A man in a suit – his rough hand felt the familiar outline of a silk tie - then two._

_At that moment the very air seemed to _groan_ with a terrifying roar. Peter Newkirk turned and watched in mute horror as a solid wall of golden fire pushed aside the smoke and headed straight for him._

* * *

><p>There are few things that I envy mortals for. One of them is the ability to cry.<p>

Tears of unabashed sorrow flowed down the Colonel's cheeks as he witnessed Mr. Newkirk's act of selfless bravery. With a raised hand I stopped time itself; the fire slowed, then came to a halt in front of the former RAF airman. Just long enough for the final act of our drama to come into play.

"Observe, but say nothing," I firmly told my charge. Reluctantly, unable to trust his voice, Hogan silently nodded in reply.

Calmly, I walked forward and stood in front of the heroic Englishman. The Colonel followed and watched in awe as my right hand _pulled_ the soul of the former prisoner out of his now-still body. The ghostly image shook its head for a moment, befuddled. To my great surprise the essence of Peter Newkirk quickly recovered before flashing me a cocky grin.

"I'm dead, aren't I?" he calmly remarked, flicking his eyes towards the frozen flames before turning towards me. "Guess that means you're Death. Nice suit," he breezily added.

For the second time in one day I was profoundly stunned. Like Hogan, Mr. Newkirk's mind accepted – instead of denying – his new reality. For a brief moment I thought of the Colonel standing behind me.

_Your evidence, Mr. Hogan, stands proudly before us; he has absorbed more of your presence than you realize. __And if you could guide four humans to a better existence – all without realizing your beneficial actions – then how many more will you affect in the course of a single lifetime? And they in turn?_

_I suppose I shall never know that answer._

"Yes, I am," I replied, my only outward sign of surprise a raised eyebrow. At that moment, my hand gestured towards my suit jacket. "And thank you. I don't believe anyone has ever told me that."

Mr. Newkirk nodded once before he studied his now-former body. "Maybe it's better this way," he finally said, a hint of sadness in his quiet voice. "Six months from now, I'd be dead anyway. Brain tumor." His reflective eyes, now curious, momentarily gazed at the still wall of fire hovering before us. Suddenly, the look of self-pity disappeared; the eyes that glanced in my direction now twinkled with dry humor.

"Oh, well. Always imagined I'd go out with a bang," his cheerful voice, accompanied by a knowing smile, suddenly burst in my direction. "Though considering things, I'd rather have gone out with a hot brunette in my arms. Can't have everything, you know," he exclaimed, a cheeky smile on his lips.

For the first time in years, I laughed. The sound was hesitant – even awkward – but the ringing tones were clear enough. _You have to hand it to mortals_, I thought, soundly amused. _Even in death, some of them still keep a sense of humor! How amazing!_ However, on to business.

"Peter Newkirk," I said formally, "for your noble actions, I relieve you of the pain of death." I reached out and lightly touched his shoulder again. "You may proceed onward."

Instantly, a bluish-white column of light appeared over Newkirk's soul. Brilliantly illuminated glowing orbs floated down from the luminosity overhead before softly cascading into the newly departed. At the same time small specks – looking much like fireflies – of Mr. Newkirk's soul began to flow upward into the glowing nexus. He paid no attention to his imminent dissolution; instead, his jaw dropped as he stared into the radiant brilliance above his head.

"Mum...Mavis...Adrianne..," he softly muttered, his face euphoric. From long experience I knew he was seeing the souls of loved ones long since departed from this world. His eyes, filled with happiness, flickered from the light and to my envious gaze. A moment later the Englishman's joyous facade quickly dissipated into utter shock when he finally spied Hogan; I had concealed his presence until the point of no return.

"Guv'nor," he sputtered, unable to believe what he saw. "You... But how? You're not dead..."

"Not yet," the Colonel's wavering voice choked out. His emotional eyes, tinged with fresh sorrow, embraced Newkirk's astonished – and now worriedly troubled – gaze. Without thinking, Hogan's body reflexively snapped to attention moments before his right hand rose in salute to his former Corporal. The Englishman quickly followed suit; spectral tears poured down his ghostly cheeks before his form, dissolving into brilliantly lighted sparkles, flowed into the light above us. For a moment the blue glow surrounded us with an intensely loving, almost gentle presence.

Then it was gone.

"Time to go," I said quietly, unable to hide the tinge of eternal regret from my soft voice. Instead, with a soft snap of my fingers, I returned us to 1943. Time quickly resumed its normal pace at the station; the burned husk of Peter Newkirk's body collapsed to the floor as the flashover took full effect.

* * *

><p>"...and not a moment before!" Colonel Klink's voice soundly finished.<p>

Hogan blinked. He was standing in the Kommandant's office; it was as if the conversation with Death – Jack, or whatever he called himself - had never taken place. _But I know I – we - did._ Puzzled, he absently glanced at the still-overjoyed Luftwaffe Colonel while his mind tried to make sense of it all.

"What?" his distracted voice asked.

Klink looked at him in confusion. "Hogan, Hogan," he clucked smugly even as he walked around his desk. "We were talking about-

"The blankets! Right!" Hogan exclaimed before waving his hand dismissively. "No problem about that, sir," he said happily. Sorry to have bothered you." With that, he headed for the door. Klink, caught up in his own world, failed to notice even as he raised his finger to lecture his Senior POW.

"Colonel Hogan, really," the Kommandant groaned in protest even as he mockingly shook his head, "I do not wish to listen to any more of your...whaaat?" his voice trailed off, shocked, as he finally realized what the American Colonel was doing.

Hogan merely smiled at the perplexed German officer before he opened the door. Instead of leaving, however, the American officer quickly turned and flashed a cocky grin in Klink's direction before raising a finger of his own. "Keep up the good work, sir," he cheerfully praised the older man. "That shows initiative. Generals are famous for that." With a parting look of warmth, he closed the door. Klink gave the wooden panel an odd look.

_He couldn't know about that, could he?_ his worried mind silently questioned before pushing the silly thought away. _No_, he decided. _Not even Hogan would know about _that_..._

The Colonel's step was light as he left the Kommandant's office. Hilda's eyes, as well as her delightful smile, twinkled playfully in his direction; for a brief moment he felt like an Olympian God. The feeling was quickly dispelled when Sergeant Schultz stepped inside the front door. In an instant, he recalled the words that Death had used…

…_you are giving aid and comfort in his life…_

…and smiled sadly as the rest of the conversation played out in his memory.

_I guess it is true,_ his thoughts, heartfelt with realization, reflected. _You can change the world one person at a time. Even if you don't realize it._

Without saying a word, Hogan reached into his front jacket pocket and pulled out two Hershey's candy bars before holding them towards Schultz. In an instant, the tired face of the Sergeant of the Guard turned into undisguised glee; his right hand quickly plucked the candy from the American officer's hand before raising it upward towards his nose. Delighted eyes, tinged with greed, sighed with pure pleasure as the scent of cocoa entered his lungs. With a quick motion, he then tucked the bars away in one of his uniform pockets. Suddenly, he gave the Colonel an odd look.

"What are these for, Colonel Hogan?" he asked, his tone confused. "You haven't asked me for anything…"

Hogan shrugged. "Just for being you, Schultz," he said noncommittally. "You're still going on leave, right?"

"In two days," Schultz chuckled before his expression turned curious. "Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering," the Colonel said, shrugging his shoulders. "Hey, before you go, stop by the Barracks. The men and I have been collecting candy for your kids." _And we'll have some ready even if I have to have London airdrop it! _He then threw a warm grin towards the amazed NCO. "We were going to surprise you, but—"

"_Danke_, Colonel Hogan!" the fat Sergeant happily interrupted. "You are such a nice man, even if you are the enemy! And such a wonderful officer!" He paused, then narrowed his eyes slightly as he wondered what he would have to do for this unexpected generosity. Hogan quickly headed the errant thought off.

"No charge," he said, holding up his hand to forestall further comments. "It's for the kids." _Five of yours, and two lucky ones._ He smiled once more, then let his eyes slowly drift across Hilda's beauty before turning away to leave.

"See you later, Schultz," the Colonel called out over his shoulder. Before the door closed he heard Schultz mutter something to Hilda, though he didn't quite catch the muted words. Whatever was said, the tone was obviously friendly. He could have also have sworn he heard a touch of wonder in the Sergeant's kind voice.

_Just consider it a partial payment, Schultz,_ he thought. _Someday, I'll pay you back for everything you've done. Or at the least say thank you. And Klink, too._

_Someday…_

* * *

><p>Hogan barely felt the ground beneath his feet as he walked over to Barracks Two. The game of catch was still going on; he eyed the flying ball for a moment even as his mind recalled that 'other' world.<p>

_A world where everyone was at peace, at least for a moment. _He grinned, then shook his head. _Then again, I'd rather keep this one. Mannequins aren't that fun to kiss. Plus, with my luck they'd leave splinters in my tongue!_ The thought caused him to chuckle even as his hand opened the door to his rough wooden 'home'.

As he expected – even knew – his team was still clustered around the wooden table. Pride, mixed with profound awe, radiated from his heart as he warmly smiled towards the men who volunteered their lives for the almost-suicide missions he was ordered to carry out. The feeling of nagging guilt that had haunted his soul earlier was forever gone. In an instant, the scene froze itself into his mind; later in life he would remember many things about Stalag 13, but this…

…_this will last forever…_

His men, meanwhile, looked at him with expectant, then curious, faces as their conversations drifted into silence. After a minute, Newkirk's voice broke the quiet stillness.

"You alright, Guv'nor?" he asked, his Cockney accent laced with concern.

Hogan eyed the Corporal with a twinkling eye. He opened his mouth to tell Newkirk about the future, to tell all of them what he had seen of their lives...but he was unable to force the words past his lips. Instead, to his utter frustration, there was only silence. Suddenly, a calm voice intruded on his thoughts; quiet, yet instantly recognizable:

_It is forbidden to interfere with human history, Colonel_, the unseen speaker chided lightly. _What will come, will come_.

The presence behind the words faded, and then was gone. But Hogan knew, without a doubt, that none of it was a dream.

_Can you change the future?_ he wondered as his eyes flicked over to the RAF airman's face. _Or more importantly, do I even try? Forty-four years from now you'll die saving lives. You'll die a hero in every sense of the word._

_Carter's wife – his future wife – will die in a traffic accident. That'll still happen. Unfortunately, like Newkirk, I can't warn him; instead, I'll have to learn how to deal with that terrible knowledge._

_More importantly: will I ever be able to live with knowing what will happen? _

Hogan let his pent-up breath escape his lips. _I guess that's for the future. _Instead, he merely grinned at the assorted enlisted men. At least there was one thing he could say.

"Thanks, guys," he said simply, a wry look on his face. "Thanks...for everything."

With that, the Colonel turned away and entered his quarters. As the door closed, his men exchanged bewildered glances.

"What was that all about?" Newkirk asked, his tone puzzled. "For a moment, it seemed like he was going to say something else." The Englishman's eyes then darted over to Kinchloe. "What did London want with him, anyway?"

"Getting plans from some Kraut Colonel," the placid radioman rumbled. "We don't even have to go to him; he's coming to us." He shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe it's something else?"

"You don't think he's starting to crack, do you?" the airman wondered out loud. "This bleedin' place would drive anyone barmy. Besides, he's got a lot more on his shoulders than the rest of us."

For a moment, Kinch was silent while he considered the question. "I don't know," he finally replied, his only sign of worry a raised eyebrow. "We'd better keep an eye on him, just in case." His eyes then lit up with an idea. "Maybe we could make him a cake," he offered. "You know, celebrate his one hundredth sabotage mission, or something like that."

LeBeau nodded eagerly. "He will have a cake fit for a king!" he excitedly promised before his face turned dreamy. "A chocolate masterpiece, with lemon icing! He'll be in heaven for a week!"

"You'd better keep it from Schultz," Carter interrupted. "He'd sniff it out in two seconds."

"Bloody true, that," Newkirk agreed before he looked at Kinch again. "Has there really been a hundred sabotage missions already?"

"Probably more," the black man slyly grinned. "Then again, we could do one candle for each of the women he's been with since he got here."

The Corporal snorted. "I don't think there's enough candles in all of Germany for that, mate," he groused admiringly. "It'd be a bloody fire hazard, not to mention collapse the cake."

Chuckles erupted around the table as the men nodded in agreement. LeBeau then eyed the closed door with a sad eye.

"Poor _Colonel_," he muttered, his French accent tinged with sadness. "He really needs a vacation from this place." At that moment, his face cheered up slightly as a new thought struck him. "Maybe we can arrange one for him?" he asked hopefully.

"Ruddy chance of that," Newkirk responded mournfully. "Not unless he wants to take it in Berlin. He's certainly not going to get one around here, even if the Gestapo chap is one of ours."

"Hey, here's an idea!" Carter piped in energetically. "We could set him up on a blind date with one of the local girls! One of us could go along and double date-"

"CARTER!" the men chorused. For his part, the Sergeant was unfazed.

"Well gee, guys," he protested. "I was just trying to help. You know, a girl can do wonders for your morale-"

Newkirk groaned again and slapped a hand to his forehead. "Carter..." he moaned in mock frustration.

* * *

><p>For a few minutes more I amused myself by watching the friendly banter between Hogan's men. Their love for the man was unabashedly profound; their excitement at trying to make their Colonel happy self-evident.<p>

_In the midst of war, these men show humanity's greatest strength,_ I judged. _Not by great works and mighty endeavors, but by simple deeds and words. This, then, is what gives me hope._

At that moment I shifted myself to Hogan's quarters. To my surprise the American officer - clearly strained by the long 'day' - was already asleep in his narrow bunk. This time, however, his tired body was free of its earlier guilt. For a change, I smiled; clearly, my work here was done.

With nothing to hold me - at least for the moment - I returned to 1987.

The station, blackened and burned, stood silently in the early morning hours before dawn. Firemen with hoses snaked throughout its innards, putting out any errant flames; harsh lights from portable lamps glared brightly into the gutted interior. Nearby, the team of men and women tasked to investigate the fire waited for the all-clear before they could begin their work. With practiced ease, I implanted the name of Peter Newkirk – as well as his location – within the minds of two of the senior investigators.

It was expedient, yet possibly unnecessary: the former Ambassador to the Court of St. James had already pressed the issue with the Foreign Secretary as well as with certain law enforcement contacts. Even now he is unable to sleep, for which I feel guilty: truly, foreknowing the future can be a curse instead of a blessing. Especially for a man who has carried his terrible burden of knowledge for more than four mortal decades.

Even in old age, the future version of Robert Hogan is quite imposing. I have to candidly admit that I was impressed with that man just as I was with his younger self. Personally, I was unsurprised to see the former Ambassador at the station earlier in the evening. In a way, I almost expected it; even more, I admired his courage for doing so. I could block him from speaking or taking action based on future events, yet I could not stop him from being near one of his men during his timely demise. In a way, it was also fitting: no one should die alone.

With a single thought, I disappeared to my next destination. This time the sleeping form of a young girl lay before me, though I was here more out of curiosity than actual necessity. This was one of six people saved by the gallant Peter Newkirk; a young child who would carry on without knowing the name of her rescuer. However, she would be alive. A far better cry than the thirty-one souls separated from the mortal coil in order to face the final Judgment of Life.

For a moment, I examined the child's lifetime. Her contributions to society were years away; her designated end decades beyond that. And yet, unlike the countless other souls I have examined, hers brings a small smile to my face. For personal reasons, of course.

Suddenly, I sighed heavily as an annoying – and all too familiar - summons radiated throughout my quiet body. It took little effort to find the source: another tormented soul in 1943 needed my immediate attention. Before taking my leave, I reached out and tenderly brushed a lock of hair away from the girl's forehead. Just as I once did for my own daughter, so long ago.

_Perhaps your cures for cancer will give me more time to enjoy my life, such as it is_, my hopeful thoughts echoed. _I do so enjoy my sunrises..._

"Goodbye, my dear," I whispered kindly. "One day, we shall have to talk..."

With a snap of my fingers, I was gone.

[fin/ende]

* * *

><p><em>AN: Hopefully, you've enjoyed this little tale; thank you for reading! I'm going to work on (as time permits, especially RL) the final story in this planned trilogy: the showdown between Hochstetter and Hogan that I 'teased' you with at the beginning of this story._

_Sadly, the King's Cross/St. Pancras Underground fire was a real (and horrifyingly tragic) event. A lit cigarette (or something similar) started a fire on an old wooden escalator; the resulting fire was, in the words of one fireman, 'hotter than a blowtorch.'_

_I've tried to keep to the actual facts; however, if you've been in an Underground station you've probably noted that I've tweaked things a bit here and there for story purposes._

_As always, thanks for reading and have a nice day!_


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